


Might Have Been

by hexagonad (ideserveyou)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hair Brushing, M/M, Manicure, More Fluff, Poetry, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideserveyou/pseuds/hexagonad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard gets a Valentine. Vince helps him sort out his look for his big date...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Might Have Been

At the first rattle of the shop’s letterbox, Vince leaps out of his seat and races downstairs.

Howard doesn’t bother to get off the sofa, just sits there and sips his coffee, like the post on Valentine’s Day is the same as on any other day.

He may have a point, actually, at least as far as he is concerned.

Vince scoops up the pile of letters from the mat and bounces up the stairs two at a time.

There are lots of envelopes. Vince knows they’ll all be for him, but he sorts eagerly through them anyway: big ones, little ones, glittery ones, scrawly ones, and the two safety-net ones he always sends himself, just in case...

Hang on, could’ve sworn that cream-coloured one said ‘Moon’.

Vince checks it carefully in case he’s read it wrong in his excitement, but it definitely says ‘Howard Moon’ and not ‘Vince Noir’.

‘Hey,’ he exclaims, ‘Howard got a Valentine too.’

‘Probably send it himself,’ Bollo mutters.

Naboo just raises an eyebrow and carries on smoking his hookah.

Vince looks at Howard’s astonished face, and feels a stab of something very like regret.

‘Hand it over, then.’ Howard’s all excited and a little bit embarrassed.

Dumbly, Vince hands him the envelope. Soft, thick paper with neat italic handwriting that Vince doesn’t recognise.

Howard opens it, reads the tasteful cream-coloured card inside, gives a cautious smile...

Then looks dubiously at Vince.

Vince shakes his head. ‘Wasn’t me, Howard. Honest.’

It should have been, he thinks. Just like he thought this time last year. And the year before. He’d always assumed he had plenty of time, but all of a sudden it looks like next year may be too late.

Howard looks into Vince’s eyes. Vince tries to look back steadily but he’s not used to Howard making eye contact; those little brown shrimpy peepers are boring into him and he blushes despite himself.

He looks appealingly at Naboo, who sighs and puts the pipe aside. ‘Howard, you ballbag, he’s tellin’ the truth, my shaman senses would know if he wasn’t.’

Howard’s smile grows wider, and Vince turns away before Howard sees something he doesn’t need to see, not right before he goes on a hot Valentine’s date.

‘Sounds like a lovely lady,’ Howard muses, reading his Valentine all over again. ‘Hmm... I wonder whether it’s the one with the red hair who was at jazz club last week...’

Vince should be curious; Howard wants him to be curious, and at any other time he’d be asking loads of questions, just to wind Howard up, but right now he really, really doesn’t want to know. He gets to his feet and heads for the door. ‘Nice one, Howard. An’ about time, too... I’m off to pick an outfit, looks like my luck might be in tonight as well.’

He flourishes his pile of Valentines, but somehow it doesn’t seem quite as exciting any more.

Looks like his luck’s run out, actually.

...

Later that afternoon, as the light is starting to fade in the grey sky outside, he’s sorting listlessly through a box of sparkly scarves when his bedroom door opens.

‘Vince?’

‘Howard,’ Vince says, without enthusiasm.

‘I have an apology to make. I thought the card was just you having yet another laugh at my expense, but I’ve read it... several times now, and it seems perfectly genuine. I’m sorry.’

Vince shrugs. ‘It’s OK.’ He goes on sorting and doesn’t look up.

Behind him, he hears Howard fidgeting from one foot to the other, and wonders why he hasn’t gone.

Howard clears his throat nervously. ‘Vince... Would you... would you help me sort out my look? For tonight? I’d really appreciate it.’

‘Course I would.’ Vince feels a bit better all of a sudden; it’s not often Howard asks for his opinion about his clothes.

He scrambles up and follows Howard to his bedroom.

He doesn’t spend much time in Howard’s room, at least not when Howard is in it too; he sneaks in there sometimes when Howard is out at Jazzercise, just to sit on Howard’s bed with its old-fashioned candlewick bedspread and look around at Howard’s neatly organised belongings, trying to understand what makes the big man tick because Vince has never really understood that and he thinks that if perhaps he did, he would know how to make Howard like him a bit more, or at least notice him a bit more.

It never really works, but he enjoys breathing in Howard’s friendly, tweedy smell and the feeling of security it’s always given him. And if sometimes he takes Howard’s paisley pyjamas out from under the pillow, and buries his face in them for a little while, he is always very careful to fold and replace them, and leave the bed without a single wrinkle that might betray him.

Naboo probably knows all about it, but that’s OK, he doesn’t give a shit and anyway he barely talks to Howard unless he really has to.

Perhaps if Vince had talked to Howard more...

‘Vince?’ Howard clicks his fingers in front of Vince’s face, making him jump. Howard chuckles, a lovely warm sound that Vince doesn’t hear nearly often enough these days. ‘Little man? You were miles away there. Come on, get with the action, I’ve got a classy lady to meet tonight.’

Vince nearly asks whether Howard is sure about that, at least about the “lady” bit of it: after all, Elinor, Old Gregg and the Hitcher all know where Howard lives.

But Howard is looking happier than he’s looked in such a long time... Vince bites his tongue before he can say anything to spoil this for him.

‘Sorry Howard, I was thinking about me own dates... but there’s plenty of time, I’ll help you get ready, course I will. Lead me to your wardrobe, an’ be prepared to pick me off the floor when I faint from tweed overload.’

‘At least you won’t get your retinas burned out from the dazzling glare of tasteless glitter and mirrors,’ Howard retorts. ‘Your wardrobe’s a glam nightmare. I looked in there once and had to wear dark glasses for a week.’

Vince feigns indignation. ‘That’s because you were hung over after Kirk’s thirteenth birthday party. Nothin’ to do with my wardrobe, it’s entirely innocent.’

‘Innocent, Vince, is not a word I would use for a wardrobe that contains as many items of shamelessly provocative design as yours does.’

‘You’re just jealous.’ Vince cuffs Howard affectionately round the head, greatly cheered by the warmth and lack of edge in Howard’s banter.

And by the fact that Howard had found some of Vince’s clothes provocative.

Then he remembers that it may be too little, too late, and sighs.

‘Come on, it’s not that bad.’ Howard opens the wardrobe door. ‘I just need something...’

‘Vintage gentleman,’ Vince says. ‘Restrained and classic. So the Hawaiian shorts are right out, for starters.’

‘But my legs are my best feature.’

Vince shakes his head. ‘You don’t want to give too much away. Not on a first date. If she’s a classy lady, she’ll be expectin’ a classy date, you know. Oldfashioned courtship, takin’ it slow. Should be just your style.’

‘What, you reckon Howard Moon is a slow mover? How dare you, sir. I’ll be comin’ at her like a beam, like a razor...’

‘Woah, steady there, Greased Lightning, if you come at her too fast she’ll be runnin’ for the exit before you’ve even said hello. You need to cultivate an image of... of...’

Vince racks his brains, he doesn’t really know much about oldfashioned courtship. In fact he doesn’t really know much about courtship full stop, most of his encounters have been pretty much instant and casual, one-night stands that always leave him unsatisfied.

Because they’re always with the wrong person.

The brain secretary comes up with the answer, on flashcards.

‘Candlelight,’ Vince says triumphantly. ‘An’ a fancy dinner... chocolates... red roses. That sort of thing.’

Howard relaxes. ‘Yes, that sounds just the ticket. We’re meeting at six-thirty, I can pick up some roses at the corner shop on the way...’

‘Where are you meetin’?’

‘Oh no. I’m not falling for that one, Vince. When Howard Moon sets out to win a young lady’s heart, he works alone. I appreciate your help with my appearance, but that is as far as it goes.’

‘Are you goin’ to that new French place down the road?’

Howard reaches into the wardrobe and pulls out a bunch of hangers with trousers attached. ‘You can keep trying, Vince, but I’m not going to tell you.’

‘But –’

‘Let’s just say, it’ll be somewhere oldfashioned and classy. You wouldn’t like it.’

Vince would, he thinks. At least, he would if he were with Howard...

‘Vince? Vince, stop drifting off, we’ve got some serious sartorial decisions to make here and we’ve only got two hours.’

Vince forces his attention back to the fashion disaster that’s dangling from Howard’s hand, and winces. ‘Well, you can bin all that lot for a start.’

Vince rejects the first fourteen of Howard’s pairs of trousers, even Howard’s favourite subdued muffin corduroys, finally settling on a dark charcoal grey pair that he doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen Howard wear before. But the fit is good, and teamed with an olive rollneck (Howard insists on the colour even though it makes Vince feel a bit queasy) and a simple dark blazer, they do seem to give an impression that says that candlelit dinners and roses are definitely on the cards...

Vince tucks a silk hankie neatly in the blazer’s breast pocket. ‘There. Happy with that? I reckon that’s the best we’re gonna do.’

‘I – Yes, yes, this is fine.’ Howard looks a bit selfconscious. ‘It’s not quite my usual look but...’

‘Works for me.’ Vince forces himself to sound a bit casual.

As though he doesn’t really care.

Howard looks really good, actually; really, deliciously good...

Vince tells himself to focus.

Howard is still looking anxious. ‘You really think this... oldfashioned courtship will work on a modern young lady?’

‘Course it will. Per’aps she’ll let you kiss her hand. Maybe she’ll want to kiss yours...’

Vince has an idea.

‘Want me to sort out your nails for you?’ he asks, as lightly as he can.

Howard looks surprised, then glances down. ‘I suppose they are a bit... neglected.’

‘For a musician,’ Vince scolds, taking Howard’s hand and glaring at it, ‘you really don’t look after your hands... c’m’on, come into my room, I’ve got eveyrthin’ we need in there.’

Howard laughs. ‘That’s a rubbish chat-up line.’

‘ ’Twasn’t a chat-up line,’ Vince lies, acutely aware of the warmth of Howard’s fingers against his own, ‘but I don’t suppose you’ve got a manicure set in here, have you?’

‘Actually, no.’

‘Well then.’ Vince tows Howard out of the door and into his room, shoves a pile of clothes off the bed and sits Howard down on it, then rummages in the drawer for the tools he’ll need.

As he picks up Howard’s left hand and turns it towards the light, he expects Howard to go all prickly and don’t-touch-me, but the big man just sits there all relaxed and lets Vince get on with his work.

Howard’s fingers are surprisingly soft but Vince can feel the strength of them beneath the skin as he bends and flexes them, carefully trimming and cleaning and filing Howard’s nails and finally buffing them to a nice shine.

He thinks about offering nail polish, but decides that’s probably a step too far.

‘There you go.’ He lets go of Howard with another stab of something that is very definitely regret. ‘Sorted.’

‘Thank you.’ Howard turns his nails this way and that, admiring the finish. Vince has done a good job, he’s quite proud of the way they’ve turned out.

A stray bit of hair flops forward over Howard’s forehead; Howard lifts a hand to push it back.

‘What about your hair?’ It comes out before Vince can stop himself.

Howard looks a bit miffed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my hair, thank you.’

‘I didn’t mean there was anything _wrong_ with it,’ Vince says hastily, ‘not actually _wrong_ wrong, it’s just... it could do with... with bringin’ up to the standard of the rest of you, if you see what I mean. I dunno, maybe a touch of stylin’ wax, a quick trim...’

‘No.’ Howard frowns. ‘No scissors. Your midnight barbering escapades were quite enough.’ Then he looks at Vince, and his brow un-furrows. ‘You can tidy it up, though, if you like. This bit at the front here... it is a little unruly. Spoils the overall impression.’ He runs his fingers through the offending locks. ‘If there’s anything you can do...’

‘I’ll get the wax.’ Vince skips eagerly across to the dressing table.

Howard’s hair flows across Vince’s fingers like smoke, like silk, like a familiar comfort. Vince strokes it back from Howard’s forehead, and without really thinking about it, begins to massage Howard’s warm scalp very gently with his fingertips.

‘What are you doing?’

Vince gives a guilty little start. ‘Just rubbin’ your head a bit, to get the blood flowing, it’ll make your hair easier to sort.’

It doesn’t sound convincing, but to Vince’s surprise Howard doesn’t tell him to stop, just leans back against the Gary Numan poster on the wall, crosses those long Northern legs and shuts his eyes. ‘Better get on and sort it, then.’ His voice is mellow and relaxed. Maybe he’s starting to look forward to this date.

Vince goes to work with comb and product until he is forced to admit that Howard’s hair is as near perfect as it’s ever going to be and that any more ‘sorting’ will just make it worse again.

With an inward sigh, he pushes the last curl into place. ‘All done.’

‘Thanks.’ Howard’s eyes are still closed. Vince takes a good long look at his best mate’s face, wondering how it’ll look to someone who hasn’t really seen it before; someone who won’t appreciate all Howard’s little peculiarities the way Vince does.

His curled eyelashes; the laughter lines around his eyes; the way his mouth turns at the corner...

‘What are you staring at?’ Howard’s eyes are open now, and puzzled.

‘Erm... Your ’tache, Howard. It don’t go with your hair no more, I need to sort it too.’ Without asking permission, Vince turns his attention to Howard’s moustache, giving it a bit more wax and a careful combing, as though that was what he’d meant to do all along.

As he puts the very last hair in place, his finger touches Howard’s lips, and Howard goes all pink suddenly. Vince doesn’t remark on it, although he knows he has gone a bit pink too, and not just on his cheeks...

Howard scrambles up off the bed. ‘Umm... What about accessories? You’re always banging on about them.’

Vince shakes his head. ‘You don’t need any. Not tonight. You look great, look.’

He pushes Howard across the room to stand in front of the full-length mirror.

‘Hey.’ Howard turns this way and that, admiring his profile. ‘That’s not bad. Not bad at all.’ He doesn’t look like his normal paranoid, anxious self; the tall man in the mirror is smiling, happy, confident.

The sort of man any classy bird – in fact, anyone at all – would be mad to refuse.

‘You did a great job, Vince. You’re a friend in a million.’ Howard puts his hand on Vince’s shoulder, and Vince feels his heart break in half, though he’s careful to show no sign of it in his smiling reflection.

‘That’ll do, big man, you’re gonna be late.’ Vince reaches up to give Howard’s moustache a final tweak. ‘Now go and romance the lady... and don’t forget the roses.’

‘Thank you, Vince.’ Howard’s parting smile is sweet and sincerely happy.

The front door bangs shut, and the remainder of Vince’s heart crumbles into tiny pieces.

‘Alright Vince?’ Naboo grins rather too knowingly as Vince wanders back into the lounge and flops into the armchair. ‘Shouldn’t you be gettin’ ready for your adorin’ public?’

‘Yeah,’ Bollo smirks, picking up Vince’s Valentines from the coffee table and rifling through them, ‘you got at least four hot chicks waitin’ for you... maybe more, but Bollo no good at counting, Bollo stop at number of bananas that fit in mouth. You no make good impression in old jeans and t-shirt, you need new outfit.’

‘I don’t feel like it,’ Vince sighs. 'Maybe later.'

Bollo tuts and rolls his eyes. ‘You know what they say, early bird catch worm. You leave it too late, Vince, all of your worms fly away.’

‘Worms don’t fly, you numpty.’ Naboo gets up and stretches lazily. ‘Unless they’ve been in one of Kirk’s cocktails. Talkin’ of which, Bollo, we’d better get movin’.’

‘We goin’ to the Harrisons’ V-day party. It gonna be huge,’ Bollo explains. He looks at Vince, and his expression softens. ‘You wanna come along?’

‘Nah, you’re alright. Think I’ll just stay here, have a quiet night, all this Valentine stuff’s overrated anyway.’ Vince picks up the TV remote and starts to flick through the channels.

‘Suit yourself.’ Naboo shrugs. ‘Don’t wait up. An’ make sure you put Howard’s pyjamas back...’

He flits out of the room before Vince can even protest, never mind throw the remote at him.

Vince can’t settle down after they’ve gone; the TV is total crap, it’s all dating shows and slushy power ballads and chick-flicks that he knows will just make him cry if he starts to watch them. He switches off the set and mopes around the empty flat, trying not to think what Howard and his Valentine might be doing right now.

They’ll be having their fancy dinner; the waiter’s cleared away the fancy first course and poured more fancy champagne, and now they’re looking at each other in the glow of the candlelight, Howard’s nails gleaming elegantly as he proposes a romantic toast, Howard’s perfectly groomed hair a soft mist around his head, Howard’s ridiculous but magnificent moustache just dipping into the bubbles as he raises his glass to his lips...

A sob escapes Vince, and he flings himself dramatically down on the sofa, not that there is anyone there to see.

Something rustles underneath him.

He rummages among the cushions, and pulls out the envelope from Howard’s Valentine.

Vince sits up again and stares despondently at it. He doesn’t know the writing, and it seems to have been hand-delivered, with no postmark to give him any clues.

Cream. Of course it would be cream. Howard is the original Cream Poet, and of course this woman – whoever she is – would know that.

But does she know he’s allergic to gerbils? Or how well done he likes his toast? Or that he mumbles your name and smiles as you barber his hair in his sleep?

Or that someone else is totally, hopelessly in love with him and has been for years, except they were too stupid to just admit it?

The envelope is telling Vince nothing new. He’s just about to crumple it and hurl it in the bin when something makes him turn it over and look on the back.

No return address, obviously, but a faint irregularity in the soft paper catches his eye. He turns the envelope to the light and can just about see something’s written on it, pressed through from someone writing in biro on a sheet of paper on the top.

After a bit of squinting through a magnifying glass borrowed from Stationery Village, Vince manages to make it out.

 _‘Cheers, R****. Shop’s called *****tique, you can’t miss it. *** *** ** get the outfit. See you 6.30, ***** **** smartphone, sh**** be a right laugh._ ’

Oh no.

Oh, Howard.

Vince knows that writing, all too well.

Bloody Leroy.

They’re supposed to be mates, for fuck’s sake.

Vince bites angrily at his lip.

He knows that Leroy’s never really liked Howard. Leroy used to at least put up with him, seemingly accepting Howard-and-Vince as some sort of package deal. But lately he’s been acting weird and trying to cut Vince out on his own, dissing Howard at every opportunity or else completely ignoring him.

Vince thinks Leroy must have gone a bit wrong; he seems to think Howard is really old and Vince shouldn’t hang out with him any more.

He can’t imagine what the outfit is or who will be wearing it, but it’s clear Leroy and his mate R**** (Vince grinds his teeth; Ricky or Roger or... Rachel? The writing on the envelope did look feminine... anyway whoever it is had better watch out when Vince catches up with him, or her) have set Howard up, to humiliate him for... whatever it is Leroy seems to think Howard’s done.

Or not done.

Or maybe... might have done?

No point going to look for them; Vince has no idea where they were supposed to meet, and Howard wouldn’t tell him.

He hopes Howard is OK.

There doesn’t seem to be any more he can do right now, so he just puts the kettle on, and waits for Howard to come home.

It’s a long wait. The empty flat is very quiet, and Vince starts to feel sleepy, but he doesn’t want to go to bed yet. He makes himself coffee, and then more coffee, and waits, staring unseeing at the blank TV screen.

He jumps when the door opens, and he wants to run downstairs, but his left foot has gone to sleep and is a tingling mass of pins-and-needles, forcing him to sit down again.

Howard plods slowly up the stairs and into the lounge, looking all crumpled and disappointed.

‘Howard?’ Vince’s voice has gone all hoarse.

‘Vince.’ Howard sits down at the other end of the sofa, sighs heavily, and leans back against the cushions.

He doesn’t seem angry, even: just sad, and that strikes Vince as terribly wrong.

After a little while he sighs again, and looks round.

‘Why are you still here? Didn’t you have dates tonight?’

‘Oh, I...’ Vince coughs, and tries again. ‘Things didn’t work out. Didn’t fancy goin’ out, in the end, I just...’

Howard leans forward and picks up his Valentine envelope from the coffee table.

Once again his little brown eyes leave Vince no hiding place.

‘Yeah, I worked it out,’ Vince admits. ‘I’m sorry, Howard. Really thought you was on to a good thing there.’

‘Should’ve known, shouldn’t I. Good things don’t happen to Howard Moon.’ Howard crumples the envelope savagely in one big hand, and hurls it across the room into the perpetual darkness behind the TV, where the dust bunnies roam un-hoovered.

Vince thinks of all the good things that should and would happen to Howard Moon, if only Vince Noir had anything to do with it. ‘What did happen?’

‘Nothing, really. That prick Leroy turned up in drag, I was... deceived for a few moments, someone took photos, it’ll be all over Facebook by now. Makes me sad, Vince, and you know what makes me saddest of all?’

‘What?’

‘You.’

‘ _Me?_ ’ Vince squeaks. His brain secretary drops her filing tray and the TV presenter puts up a red ‘Emergency’ sign on all the screens in his head. ‘I didn’t have nuffink to do with this, Howard, I thought you said you believed me...’

‘No, no, not because I thought you were responsible, no, nothing like that.’ Howard shuffles along the sofa and puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder.

His touch is firm and kind, a professional zookeeper’s touch, the sort of touch he’d use to soothe a fractious newt, or reassure a trembling antelope that the lions had all gone and it was safe to come out.

‘It’s just that you went to such trouble, sorting out my look and everything, and it was all for nothing...’

It makes Vince ache somewhere deep inside, that Howard is thinking of him at a time like this. Howard is still talking, wearily and sadly. ‘And when I think of how I thought it might have been...’

‘Might have been like this.’ On an impulse, Vince reaches for Howard’s free hand, grips it tight, and waits to be kindly but firmly pushed away.

He hears Howard take a deep breath.

‘Or... like this?’ Howard asks softly, and pulls Vince into an awkward but definite hug, holding him close against his chest.

He probably just needs comfort, that’s all it is. Vince holds his breath. Against his rather squashed left ear he can hear Howard’s heart beating, and the thought flits across his mind that it might after all be beating for him...

Bollo was right, he thinks. Time to find out, one way or the other, before it’s too late.

With a huge effort, Vince wriggles away from Howard and stands up.

Howard’s face is red. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t appropriate. It won’t happen again.’

‘No, it was great, an’ I’ll be back an’ we can do it again as much as you want, but I’ve got something I need to give you first. Wait there...’

Vince runs to his room, hobbling on his pins-and-needlesy foot, all breathless and not at all sure this is the right thing to do. He’s got to just go for it and hope.

He grabs his home-made Valentine from under his pillow and charges back to the lounge, relieved to find Howard is still there.

The butterflies in his tummy swoop and flutter as he stands by the sofa and watches Howard open the very restrained gold envelope and take out the simple card with a big red heart on it.

Vince watches Howard’s face as he starts to read. It doesn’t take him long, even though the words took Vince weeks and weeks to get right...

_To Howard_

_Roses are red_   
_Vilets are blue_   
_Ive loved you since the day we met_   
_and I think it’s time you knew_

_Vince xxx_

Howard looks up, his tiny eyes very bright.

‘If – if it’s not what you want’ – Vince is still breathless – ‘I promise I won’t bother you with it ever again...’

‘Shut up, Vince,’ Howard says, but without anger. ‘Just... I need to think... I can’t...’

Abruptly he gets to his feet and goes into the kitchen.

Vince just stands there, rooted to the spot, numb and devastated. He’s broken everything now, he should have stayed in Howard’s arms and not rushed him, not thrown himself at him like a lovesick schoolgirl...

Howard goes over to the fridge and takes the pen off the magnetic shopping list pad; puts the card on the worktop, and starts to write.

Vince starts to cry. Typical of Howard, to put his rejection in writing. There’ll be no anger; no argument about it; no going back.

He hears the click of the pen being replaced; Howard’s footsteps coming back.

‘Vince?’ Howard’s voice is very gentle. ‘Don’t cry. Please.’

He hands Vince the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket; waits for him to dry his eyes, then hands him the card. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t say it... not yet... just please... read this. It’s not in my usual style, but I didn’t have much time.’

Vince sniffs, and tries to focus. On the blank side of the card, opposite Vince’s own message, is another poem in Howard’s neat round writing.

_Dearest Vince,_

_Roses are ~~cream~~ red_   
_Violets are blue_   
_I should have said years ago_   
_I love you too._

_Yours always_

_Howard x_

Vince can’t speak; he just looks at Howard, and tries really hard not to start crying again.

‘It’s always been you,’ Howard says, in answer to Vince’s unspoken question. ‘But I never thought we could... I’ve tried, many times, to make a new start, find someone else, move on. Like tonight. But now that I know... how it might have been...’

He takes the card out of Vince’s shaking hands; puts it carefully on the table.

‘Might still be. _Will_ be.’ Vince feels weightless with joy. He reaches up to wind his hands into Howard’s soft hair, hopelessly disarranging it as Howard bends over and kisses him again and again, all eager and damp and bristly and clumsy and completely, utterly genius. ‘Oh, Howard...’

Howard gives a sudden snort of laughter.

‘Howard?’

The big man is shaking all over with giggles. ‘Since the day we met, eh?’

‘Yeah.’ Vince kisses him again, but Howard won’t be distracted.

‘Vince, do you _remember_ the day we met?’

‘Course I do.’ The brain secretary rifles frantically through the filing drawer marked ‘Early Memories’, but comes up empty-handed.

‘You were seven. _We_ were seven.’ Howard glares at the fourth wall, daring anyone to correct him. ‘It was my first day at my new school and they gave me the desk next to yours. You called me a big Northern prat and kicked me in the shins.’

‘I was just tryin’ to get your attention, that’s all.’

‘Then pointed out to the whole class that I was growing a moustache.’

‘Well, at least it meant I’d _noticed_.’ Vince runs his fingers lovingly along Howard’s whiskers.

‘And helped them all to beat me up at break-time.’ Howard’s trying to sound severe, but the corner of his mouth is still twitching.

‘I had to,’ Vince says earnestly, ‘or they’d have all picked on me, an’ I had a new T-shirt on an’ was half the size of everybody else. An’ afterwards we made it up, I mean, we must’ve done, or we wouldn’t’ve stayed friends...’

Howard is smiling at Vince with utter fondness.

‘Well, OK then,’ Vince concedes, ‘maybe it weren’t quite _love_ at first sight... but it might have been. An’ it definitely is now.’

Howard kisses him again, this time without bumping into Vince’s nose. They’re getting better at this already. ‘You’re not wrong there, little man. Listen, let’s not worry any more about how it might have been, eh? Because how it is, is just perfect.’

‘Perfect an’ genius.’ Vince puts his arms round Howard and leans against him, to hear the big man’s heart beating for him.

Vince Noir’s life is good right now.

And to judge by what he can feel in Howard’s trousers as Howard pulls him closer, it’s soon going to get a whole lot better...


End file.
